Dulce et Decorum est Pro Fratre Vivere
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: I just can't get enough of Mycroft, apparently. Short series in which Mycroft discusses growing up and tending his brother. Rated for future language, content, and possible smut- not of the Mylock variety, though there may be some incestual undertones.
1. This Infant Is Neither Tender Nor Mild

**This Infant Is Neither Tender Nor Mild**

My brother was a squirming mess of blankets and dark, wispy curls the first time we met. I found his wailing and the sour milk smell of his breath distasteful, and I resented the way Mummy watched him, tired-eyed but adoring, the little bundle of boy- "Sherlock," Mummy had told me, in a whisper, "his name is Sherlock."- held tight in her arms as she rocked slowly in her chair, in my old nursery.

I was ten years old. I stood in the doorway (Mrs. Hampton had washed my hands and combed my hair before she sent me up, but the presence of my father in the room made me feel strangely shy and worried, as if he'd look at me and find me lacking) and peeked at the three of them: Mummy in her rocking chair, her black hair tied in a loose plait; Father behind the chair, one hand on Mummy's shoulder; and Sherlock.

Father noticed me hovering there first. "Go down and work on your studies, Mycroft," he said, sternly. "You've seen the baby already, and a nursery is no place for a rambunctious little boy." I resented that, too. I had never been rambunctious, not even when I was a small child, and at ten I hardly considered myself a "little boy". I was quite tall for my age, and I was very bright, much brighter than I let on at times. My schoolwork was no challenge at all. I preferred the challenge of corralling my schoolmates, of making them do as I wished without causing me any trouble. When it was my turn to clean the erasers, someone else was there to make sure it was done. When the classroom pets needed tending and my name was drawn, I needed only look at one of the other boys and know that it would be taken care of. At lunch I sat at the table in the back of the room, surrounded by boys of my choosing, boys who knew to eat quietly and to follow orders. And I rewarded them, of course, with money or with privileges, run-off from the power I'd amassed. My teachers knew me only as the pudgy, fastidious child with perfect marks, but my classmates recognized me for who I was, however silent that recognition might have been. So precocious, certainly; I would have accepted that. But rambunctious? Never.

Still. I had never once, not in my entire life, disobeyed a direct order from my father. Head hung, I drifted as slowly as dared towards my small study. I didn't know Sherlock yet, but I knew a few things about him. He had made Mummy tired and ill for months, and his presence had required my nurse to leave me (and I adored my nurse, Miss Holly) in the clutches of my droll governess, Mrs. Hampton, so that she might attend the new babe. I knew that Father looked at him warmly, that the staff had tutted and cooed over him, that Grand-mère had picked out his name and sewn his christening outfit herself (and pricked her fingers more than once, I noticed, though she was very careful not to bleed on the small white gown). Sherlock was loved, that much was clear. But why? I couldn't understand the fascination with the little squealing thing. All he did was cry and vomit and go pink in the face.

And then Mummy let me hold him.

It was after supper, and the wind outside was howling, shaking the old, loose windowpanes in the sitting room. Miss Holly brought Sherlock down at Mummy's request, and I was slightly gratified by Father's small frown. The sitting room, we both agreed, was no place for a baby. I was playing the piano for Father and Mummy (Moonlight Sonata, my favourite at the time, though Father corrected me on both my tempo and posture and thus drove me to clench my jaw in quiet self-flagellation) when Miss Holly brought the baby in. Like most of the time, Sherlock was making horrid noises. Mummy clutched him to her chest, my recital forgotten, and whispered to him, sang, kissed his nose, to no avail.

"I'll be in the library," Father said, sounding as frustrated by the boy's constant wails as I felt. I didn't dare stop playing, not without permission, but I wished more than anything that Father would ask me to come with him.

He didn't, of course.

After a moment- and with Sherlock still spluttering, though what he was so upset about I could hardly understand- Mummy sighed and said, "My. Come here, love."

My hands fell away from the piano mid-chord. "Yes, Mummy." I approached her cautiously, reading her intent in her smile and her eyes. I could tell right away that she wanted me to hold the baby, and I very carefully trained the features of my face into placidity rather than disgust.

"Here," she said gently, fondly. She held Sherlock out from her chest and said, "Put your arms like mine were- yes, just so. There we are." The bundle was eased into the hollow of my cradled arms; the screaming stopped abruptly, as though Sherlock was shocked into silence by my wary hold on him.

"Ah," Mummy smiled, looking at me like I'd done something miraculous. "There, now. He only wanted you, I think."

I tore my gaze away from Mummy's astonished face and looked down at the child in my arms. Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly, his curls falling over his forehead and his mouth smacking wetly. His tiny fists were balled and waved in front of him as his small legs kicked and squirmed. But he didn't cry. "Hello, Sherlock," I whispered, quite unsure of why I was doing so. And then: he opened his eyes.

They looked like mine, Sherlock's eyes. Grey and appraising. Sherlock searched my face for a moment and then burbled, gnawing on one of his fists, and the weight in my arms suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world. This infant was my responsibility, I decided, as surely as he was the responsibility of everyone else in the house. It wasn't my job to walk away when cried, nor was it my job to sing him lullabies and kiss his fat, doughy cheeks. I needn't cook for him, nor clean his messes. But there was something, I was sure, that would fall to me.

Perhaps it was my duty to keep him from being unhappy. Or else just to keep him quiet. Maybe, in the end, they would prove to be the same thing.

x

Sherlock grew up more quickly than I'd imagined. He was a chubby infant, and then a wild-haired toddler. Sherlock was, of course, a wretched toddler. He was loud, messy, and naughtier than I'd thought possible for someone who still wore nappies and spoke in ridiculous, slurred nonsense. I spent some time trying to decipher his broken banter before giving it up for a lost cause; the boy could gesture at his bottle and mumble, "bah", but then sometimes he'd point at the very same object and call it "oog" or "meh" or some other silly thing. It was clear to me, at quite an early stage in our relationship, that communication wasn't going to be Sherlock's strong suit. Unfortunately for all of us, and most especially for the maids, Sherlock's actual strong suit seemed to be breaking things. He was incredibly efficient in his destruction, made all the worse when he finally managed to walk on his own. (His walking was quite an exciting thing for me, as I'd spent hours in the nursery coaching him on the skill, but it would have been entirely unlike Sherlock to show his gratitude in any normal fashion and so I was promptly rewarded with the news of him having broken one of my model trains the day after he took his first steps unguided.) Moreover, Sherlock positively reveled in the messes he made. A broken vase would send his small, dirty hands clapping, and a pale-faced maid crying "oh Master Sherlock, what have you done?" seemed to thrill him more than any praise or game of patty-cake could have done.

Sherlock was a dreadful little thing, of course, except when he was with me. In my bedroom, or in my study, Sherlock was quiet, watching me with his wide grey eyes as I read to him or explained, in patient tones, what I knew of the world. After the model train incident I forbade him being in my playroom, but I often took him down to the gardens or out to the stables, where he would clap and point at the horses, murmuring happily to himself in his unbreakable code. He was clever, though, my brother; I knew that right away. I taught him colours and letters with pen and ink before he could speak. His baser knowledge I left to Miss Holly (toilet training and the use of eating utensils, for instance) but while Miss Holly was perfectly content to sing him stupid little songs and Mrs. Hampton considered him too young for the small child's classroom beside the nursery, I was keen on seeing if Sherlock really was like me, after all. What a formidable team we might well become, if I kept on diligently. That was inspiration enough.

Sherlock's first word was "My". His second was "no". He favoured the second, but only just.

x

Sherlock was four and unruly enough that the maids had long since stopped cooing at him when Father died. Hunting accident; nothing to be done for it. He died in one of the guest rooms, the one we always used as a sick room, with Mummy holding his hand and the doctor from the village sighing over him, checking his dressings and wiping his forehead with a cool cloth.

I was fourteen and no longer Mister Mycroft. Now I was Mister Holmes, and both the manor and the fortune that had been my father's were suddenly mine, if not in name (the responsibility technically falling to Mummy) then at least in practice. I took the responsibility quite seriously, especially in the wake of Mummy's poor reaction to Father's death, and found myself arranging the funeral and meeting with the solicitor, exchanging quiet, solemn words about the future of the estate. We were in good stead, thankfully, Father having had no inclination towards gambling or poor investments. After the sorry business of my father's burial was attended, Sherlock became my top priority. I requested- and of course, any request of mine was not really a request at all, not at that point, but rather more of pleasant and kindly worded demand- that Sherlock begin his education at once, that he receive more discipline for his wilder behaviours, and that he start to learn both a musical instrument and a physical skill, such as fencing or riding.

The night after Father's funeral I crept into Sherlock's nursery and leaned over his crib. He was getting too big for the thing, my brother, and I was considering mentioning as much to Miss Holly in the morning when Sherlock's eyes flickered open and met mine. "My," he said, his baby voice rough enough that I knew he'd been crying earlier, probably from being reprimanded, the naughty child. "Where's Papa?"

"Gone," I said, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. "But Mummy and My are here, brother mine. You've no need to worry."

"Gerroff." Sherlock pushed my hand away, irascible as ever. "Where did Papa go?"

I considered the things ordinary people might say. Heaven, perhaps, or something quaint and foolish like _he's in a better place now_. I pursed my lips and then let out a small sigh. "He's dead," I said, calmly. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock said, but he yawned and turned over, his eyes falling closed, and I stood there with my hands clenching white on the banister of his crib until his breath had settled, slow and steady, and his small chest rose and fell untroubled.

**A/N: My Latin is a bit bollocks, as I've only taken one actual school years' worth and then my home studies have been...vague at best. So the title could be wrong, but it's a play on the more popular term "dolce et decorum est pro patria mori", which means "it is sweet and proper to die for one's country". My version means "it is sweet and proper to live for one's brother", or at least it's meant to. Bah, Latin's hard. Declensions and whatnot.**


	2. Of Baths and Botulinum

**Of Baths and Botulinum**

Sherlock was six and an absolute terror when I went away to university, a year early. I didn't want to leave him, not really, nor was I much inclined to leave Mummy to her own devices. I had come to the realization, since my father's death, that my mother was content to wallow in misery if she'd been given an excuse to do so; mourning suited her superbly, she'd decided, and the woman never wore anything but black, never went to the village without a veiled hat and a handkerchief dabbing delicately at her eyes, never spoke to the local priest without falling into a fit of tears and gasped confessions about her sadness and her willingness to join our father "in the beyond". I loved my mother painfully, and it caused me no small amount of anguish to see her so distraught, but I was never so foolish as to imagine that it wasn't a comfort to her as well. The grief gave her something to do, something which she could throw herself into with as much abandon as she'd once done with her love for my father. I only worried what effect it might have on Sherlock; I had no wish for him to become maudlin or bitter.

So it was with a nervous and anxious heart that I boarded the train home for Christmas holidays, and for all that I must have seemed rather cool when I ordered my coffee from the attendant and disappeared behind my newspaper, in fact the words were merely black squiggles and my mind's eye was turned to a little boy with wild curls and huge, pale eyes.

The trip lasted an eternity, and the car that received me at the station drove much too slowly for my liking. I allowed myself to drum my fingers upon the seat twice before folding my hands in my lap; it would never do for the chauffer to see me so unhinged. Once we were through the gate and driving up the lane, I even forced myself to remark upon the neatness of the grounds. I enquired about his wife and children and doled out seasonal blessings, all the while fidgeting inwardly and cursing the man for his enthusiastic responses.

At long last I made my way inside where I was greeted by Mr. Weston, our butler. "Ah, Weston," I said agreeably, not allowing my gaze to flit to the staircase. "It is good to see such a familiar face."

"Mr. Holmes, sir," Weston said, inclining his head. "Welcome home. I do hope your trip was a pleasant one."

"As much so as such a trip can be," I sighed, tugging off my coat. I passed it to Weston, who took it wordlessly. "Weston," I asked, handing him my suit jacket as well, "where might I find my brother?"

Weston had worked for our family for years at that point and knew better than to display much in the way of emotion, so while he didn't _quite_ smile there was still an edge of mirth in the crinkles around his eyes. "I believe Miss Holly is currently attempting to coax Master Sherlock into the bath, sir."

"I see," I said, not _quite_ smiling either. "Very well. Please have my things taken up to my rooms." I began to walk away and then stopped, turning on my heel. "Oh, Weston, I very nearly forgot: how is my mother?"

Any humour that had lingered in Weston's dark eyes quickly faded. "Taken ill, I'm afraid, sir. Mrs. Holmes has been in bed with a migraine all day."

"Oh." I wasn't surprised by the news, necessarily, but I wasn't pleased with it either. "Well, do let her know I've arrived, if she's still awake. If not perhaps you might leave word with her maid."

"Yes, sir," Weston nodded, and I left him and my thoughts of Mummy in the entrance, my thoughts ever turning to my brother.

x

"Master Sherlock, you simply must get into this tub at once!"

I lingered in the corridor, my shoulder leaned against the wall, and listened to the ruckus occurring in Sherlock's bathroom.

"No!" Sherlock insisted, his voice petulant and tremulous.

"You must," Miss Holly stated. I could picture her, then, with her hands on her hips and her foot tapping. "This very instant, or I shall be forced to phone your brother and tell him what a naughty boy you're being."

"No," Sherlock howled, and I decided that was quite enough. I rapped my knuckles on the door and pushed it slowly open, peeking inside.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Miss Holly said, a bit breathlessly, at the same instant Sherlock cried, "My!"

It was very difficult not to smile at the sight of Sherlock, with his reckless curls, knobby knees, and skinny legs. I had never imagined someone in only their pants could look so indignant. "Where have you been?" Sherlock demanded, crossing his small arms over his pale chest. His bottom lip was poked out in a way that I suspected the maids considered adorable, and I won't pretend it had no affect whatsoever on me. The smile I was fighting tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"You knew perfectly well where I have been," I said, my tone even.

Sherlock nodded. "University. And on the train." Looking a bit sly, he added, "You were reading the newspaper. And drinking coffee. Aren't I right?"

Losing the battle, I allowed myself the tiniest of smiles. "Clever boy. Now, if you'll get into the bath I'll listen to the rest of your deductions about my trip and tell you if you're correct or not. Or you could continue to be naughty and go straightaway to bed."

Miss Holly looked quietly horrified at the idea of putting Sherlock to bed without a bath, but eventually she cleared her throat and nodded, and Sherlock scowled. I could tell he knew he was being manipulated and it crossed his mind to be stubborn simply for the sake of stubbornness, but thankfully curiosity won out. "Fine."

Undoing my cuffs, I gave Miss Holly a small smile. "I will bathe him, Miss Holly. Thank you."

"Yes, sir." Miss Holly cast a quick look at Sherlock, one that seemed to be a warning and a plea, and then slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock was eager to begin. "You sat beside a lady."

"In the tub," I said, pushing up my shirtsleeves. "Then we may discuss it."

Scowling anew, Sherlock shucked off his drawers and eased into the water, making faces all the while. When he'd settled I began to wet his hair, and as I lathered it with shampoo he said, again, "You sat beside a lady on the train. Yes or no?"

"Yes," I agreed. I placed my hand on his forehead and said, "Tip your head back." Thus obeyed, I rinsed his hair free of soap and asked, "What sort of a lady might she have been?"

"How do you mean?" Sherlock wiped at his eyes and blinked at me.

"I imagine you must smell her perfume on my clothes," I said, soaping Sherlock's sponge. "What sort of woman do you imagine her to be?"

Sherlock considered this for a long moment. At last he said, "Come here, come closer." I leaned further into the tub and he pressed his face into my shirt, inhaling deeply and leaving a damp spot behind. Sitting back, he said, absently, "An old lady, I think. As old as Mummy, anyway."

Washing his back, I pointed out: "Mummy isn't so old, Sherlock. But yes, this woman was Mummy's age. Do you think she was wealthy or poor?"

"Wealthy, of course," Sherlock said at once.

"Oh?"

"Well, yes. She was sitting beside you, wasn't she? Which means she was in first class."

My smile had ceased to be small at that point. "Good, excellent." I made a point of scrubbing behind Sherlock's ears, to his chagrin. "Now, how do you think she occupied herself during the trip?"

"I can't tell that from her perfume," Sherlock said, grumpily.

"No," I agreed, "I should think not. You'll need to use another clue."

Sherlock was silent for a long while as I washed his neck and rinsed him carefully. After a time he sighed, "Give me a hint."

"You know she's Mummy's age," I said, standing and drying my hands. "And wealthy. You know she wasn't talking to me, because I was reading the newspaper. So what do wealthy older women do during long trips, if not talk to their neighbor?"

"Read books," Sherlock said, with a little irritable noise, "or do needlework, I suppose."

"Precisely so." I toweled him off and helped him out of the tub. "Our lady in question happened to do both."

"That's cheating."

"It's not cheating to make inferences based on what you already know; that's educated guessing." I passed him his pyjamas and said, more seriously, "Now put those on and get ready for bed."

Sherlock held the pyjamas out away from him as though they'd been somehow befouled. "I hate my pyjamas," he said, frowning.

"No, you don't." Draining the tub, I said over my shoulder, "If Miss Holly allowed it you would slump about in those things all day. Now do please put them on."

Having become well-acquainted with my brother's antics, I recognized at once the look that passed over his face. "I hate wearing clothes," he said, but with a glimmer in his eyes.

I stood up and folded my arms in a way that was meant to be formidable. "Sherlock…"

"Clothes," he yawned, tossing them carelessly on the floor. "Boring. I don't see the point."

"Sherlock-" I began, but it was already too late. Naked and damp-haired, Sherlock dashed out of the bathroom and down the corridor, his small feet pattering wetly and a gleeful giggle tumbling from his lips.

I stood in the bathroom doorway and listened to Miss Holly shriek, "God in heaven! Master Sherlock, what in mercy's sake are you doing? Get dressed at once!" and I did the only thing I could do, at a time like that: I laughed.

x

I had never been so furious in my life as the day Mummy informed me that she had Sherlock, aged eight, evaluated by a psychiatrist.

It was my senior year at Cambridge, and I was only home for Easter. Sherlock had been silent and sullen during my entire visit, avoiding me and skulking away in his playroom. When I'd inquired as to why, Mummy had informed me that he was unhappy with his psychiatric results and had taken them rather poorly.

"How _dare_ you," I hissed, standing closer to Mummy than I had in years. She smelled strange, the familiarity of her perfume undercut by the odd, stale scent of her skin. "To take him to those imbecilic charlatans-"

"Mycroft, darling," Mummy simpered, but I spoke over her.

"-and impose upon him whatever idiotic form of sentencing they'd recommended-"

"My, my pet, my darling, please-"

"-without even _consulting_ me-"

"He is _my_ son," Mummy said quietly, and I fell silent. Although protecting my brother had long since become my top priority, upsetting Mummy was something I had always been loathe to do.

I let my temper simmer and took a deep breath. "I apologize, Mummy. I spoke out of turn. I only wish you had brought this matter to me; you know how close Sherlock and I are, and I might have spoken to him beforehand and settled his nerves about the entire ordeal."

"Yes, you're quite right," Mummy said softly. She crossed over to the window and looked out on to the lawns. "Only I worried that you might brush away my concerns as unfounded." Turning her head back towards me, Mummy met my eyes, her own grey gaze clouded with unhappiness. "He is so awful sometimes, My. He can be so ill-tempered, and he causes such a fuss among the maids. He plays that violin you bought him at all hours, heedless of the people around him, and he brings home dead…_things_, Mycroft. You must understand; his behaviours are not normal." Her gaze softened minutely. "And you were such a good boy."

At any other time the praise would have meant a great deal to me, but as it was I could only purse my lips together and hold in all the things I wanted to say. "Is Sherlock never well behaved, then?"

"Oh, very rarely." Mummy sighed and wrung her hands in front of her absentmindedly. "When you're home he's much better, of course, and when he wants something he can be quite the little angel. But most times…" She swallowed, her eyes glistening. "Most times, Mycroft, he is simply too much for me to bear on my own. If-if your father-" The rest of her sentence was washed away in a tide of sobs and gasping breaths.

Having called Mummy's maid and seen her up to her room, I went to Sherlock's playroom and entered without knocking.

Sherlock was lying on the floor with his feet propped against the wall, and when I came in he tipped his head back and looked at me upside down. "You're angry," he said. "Is my diagnosis such a shock?"

"Mummy made no mention of your actual diagnosis," I said. "Only that you'd been seen by a psychiatrist."

Sherlock stared at me in silence for some time. It must have been unnerving to those who didn't know him, but his gaze didn't frighten me. Eventually he slumped down and scooped himself up from the floor with all the agile grace of a cat. "Dr. Pritchett said that I'm a high-functioning sociopath," Sherlock said quietly. His chin was set at a stubborn angle, as though he were daring me to tease him. "He said I don't have feelings, not like normal people."

I stepped into the room fully and let the door close softly behind me. "And what do you think?"

I'd never seen his eyes quite so round, the irises nearly iridescent. He swallowed, hard, and whispered, "I'm different, My."

"Not from me, Sherlock," I said immediately, kneeling in front of him. "There is no shame in being extraordinary." On my knees our eyes were level; a tear slid down his cheek and I used my thumb to brush it away.

"I looked it up." Sherlock's voice was still so small, barely a whisper. "Sociopath. It's…it's just a big word for what the boys at school call me."

"And what's that?" I asked gently, tamping down on the rush of anger I felt like a knot twisting in my stomach.

"Freak. Weirdo. Creep." Sherlock shrugged. "They don't like me, and I don't care because I don't like them either. But…they're right about me, aren't they?"

"No," I answered fiercely. Sherlock had always been strange about being touched, sometimes adverse and sometimes demanding it, but on this occasion I didn't think, I just pulled him into my arms and held him there. "No, Sherlock, they're simply fools. You are exceptional." Had I, in that moment, held the position I would go on to take in only a few short months, I might have made all of Sherlock's schoolmates (and that wretched Dr. Pritchett) quietly disappear that very day. Instead, thankfully, I was powerless to do anything but hold the boy in my arms until he had cried himself weak.

When his sobs faded to sniffles, I drew him up and carried him over to the sofa, lying down on my back and settling him on top of me. He didn't struggle, to my surprise, nor did he dash off at once. Instead he laid his head over my heartbeat and let me tuck my chin into his soft curls, and I stroked his back until he drifted into sleep.

x

At university I managed to do things properly, as my father had wanted, and I'd "shaken the right hands", as the saying goes, so immediately after graduation I was offered a posting at Whitehall. A very anonymous posting, as had always been the plan, one without a proper title and without any real meaning to the public at large. I was only given minor work, initially, but it was enough at that time to keep me busy. I had less time to eat and more time to smoke, which meant I lost weight, and the constant travel and endless stacks of paperwork meant I did not see much of my young brother in those days.

So it was something of a surprise when, on one crisp autumn afternoon, my secretary buzzed my office and said placidly, "Mr. Holmes, sir, telephone for you."

"Thank you, Miss Denton." I clicked off and then answered the phone blandly, "Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"Carl Powers!" Sherlock's voice, thick with excitement.

I snubbed out my cigarette guiltily (if Mummy knew I'd taken up the habit…) and clutched the phone closer. "Sherlock, I will require slightly more of an explanation than that if I'm to be of any help to you."

Sherlock growled with frustration. "Carl Powers, Mycroft!" It was very strange, hearing Sherlock use my full name. I didn't care for the sound of it in his mouth, nor for the feeling it gave me, which was something akin to a toothache. "It's been all over the papers," Sherlock went on, unaware of my momentary lapse of focus.

"The name does sound familiar," I sighed. My memory was exceptional, especially in my early twenties, so I was merely humoring Sherlock with that, assuming Carl to be some childhood bully. "Pray tell me what he's done to earn your ire."

"Oh, I'm not upset with Carl Powers, quite the opposite in fact. He's dead, you see."

What thoughts went through my mind in that moment I do not care to reveal, but suffice to say that my next words were spoken with great care and trepidation. "Sherlock, this line is quite secure, but I would prefer it immensely if you would come to speak to me in person instead. If you've no money for the train I can wire some to the village. If needs must you can stay at my flat until…until we've got things sorted properly."

A lapse, and then: "I didn't _kill _him, Mycroft."

"I see." I cleared my throat. "Then…"

"I didn't kill him, but someone else did." Sherlock sounded as though he were vibrating with energy. "The police think it was an accident, but where are his _shoes_? No, I'm telling you: it's murder."

"I see," I said again, foolishly.

"Look," Sherlock sighed, "I've written to the police but there's no sign of them having read my letters, and I've phoned the Scotland Yard's London office at least forty times. The secretary's asked me to stop calling, so…I wondered if you might phone them."

I very carefully didn't say "I see" again. Instead I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then opened it once more to speak. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt," I said slowly. "Have you been well behaved, Sherlock? How are your marks?"

Sherlock huffed out a breath. "I'm nearly twelve, My, I hardly need you checking in on me. But if you must know I've been too busy with this Carl Powers case to get into any trouble and my marks are the same as ever."

"Mediocre edging towards pitiable, you mean."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, "something like that. I have to go; Mummy's shouting for me. You'll call them though, won't you? The Yard?"

"Yes, my dear brother, I shall make a note of it at once." I scratched down _Carl Powers, missing his shoes _on my notepad and smiled a little at the ridiculousness of it. "Now please, go, before Mummy gets upset."

"Yes, fine." Sherlock rang off without even saying good-bye, and I set the phone in the cradle slowly, my eyes distant. I had missed so much, too much of my brother's childhood. He was swiftly becoming someone I barely knew, a truth I didn't relish by any means. I thought of the way my name sounded in his voice and bit the inside of my lip, gently, an old remnant of the days when I would speak to Father and leave the conversation feeling like a lesser person for it.

Fortunately, I was swiftly torn from my thoughts by an urgent memo delivered by a breathless courier, and matters of national security over-rode those of familial discomfort. Unfortunately, I became so busy that it was weeks before I rediscovered the Carl Powers note on my desk, and by that time I felt quite sure that any purpose my phone call might have served had long since been vanquished.


	3. Indian Summer

**Indian Summer (or, Lie Back and Think of England)**

I went home on Sherlock's thirteenth birthday with the knowledge that I would soon have to broach a topic I found incredibly repugnant. There was nothing to be done about it; as Sherlock's only close male relative the duty fell to me, and while no one had implicitly spelled out the thing for me, I knew Sherlock to be overwhelming incompetent in all matters of a social nature.

I had to talk to Sherlock about sex.

Aside from the impropriety involved in the subject itself, I found the idea of sharing my views on sexuality extremely discomforting. I had discovered at university that having no sexual experience was a reason for potential ridicule and resolved the issue as soon as I was able. I visited a very discreet boudoir, but not one so cautious in its reputation that my peers would not know of it. While I made every effort to appear as though my visits were of a secret, clandestine nature, in fact the only reason for my visits were that the men in my company at school and at the various clubs in which I found myself would consider me something of a "man of the world".

In truth, the act itself repulsed me.

On my first visit, I was swept away to a bedroom done up in red velvet and black silk, and given a woman of medium build, with pretty ginger curls and rather large breasts. I explained somewhat stuffily what my situation was, and that I lacked experience of that variety in all meanings. I had not even kissed. The woman- Rosaline- was very patient and gentle with me. She taught me to kiss as properly as she could manage, for all that I disliked the overly wet feeling of it, and touched me carefully. When she felt I was ready she laid me down and climbed astride my lap, pushing herself down on to me slowly. Again, the feeling disturbed me, but I considered the task worthwhile and so kept at it until the sight of her flapping breasts and the slick warmth between her legs so disgusted me that I could no longer maintain an erection. I pushed her away after mere minutes of mindless friction and washed myself thoroughly, my stomach churning, and then I paid her double her normal fee and left as quickly as I could carry myself away.

I had been seventeen then, but my mindset had hardly changed in the years since. I visited the whores a few times a month, for the sake of my reputation, but I still didn't enjoy those visits and I had yet to orgasm in the presence of another person. More than once I'd wondered if perhaps it was my disinterest in the female form that made those brief encounters so deplorable, but as the entire point of the exercise was to benefit my name I never indulged my curiosity; being found engaging in homosexual sex acts was likely to be more of a detriment than a help, and to me sex was only a distasteful necessity imposed by the expectations of my peers.

Such was my mindset when I called Sherlock into my study- not the one I used as boy, but Father's old one- and bade him sit down in one of the great wingback chairs.

Sherlock, contrary as ever, chose to stand and clutch at the chair instead. "What do you want?" he asked, his eyes narrowed.

"I must talk to you," I said slowly, not quite meeting his eyes, "about something which we will both surely find uncomfortable."

"If this is about the dissections, Mummy said it was fine as long as I didn't do it in the house anymore."

I met Sherlock's eyes, then, and cleared my throat. "No, it's that."

"I've stopped getting into fights," Sherlock said irritably, "and I keep my experiments contained to the workroom in the conservatory, as requested. I don't leave the door open when I bathe, I don't put anything unusual in the refrigerator for Margie to find, and I haven't pestered the village mortician in _months_."

"It's not any of those things," I explained patiently, unable to keep my lips from twitching into a smile.

Sherlock glared at me. "Then what?"

"Have you…" I cleared my throat again and folded my hands on the desk. "Have you heard of sexual intercourse?"

The face Sherlock made then was such a mirror of the one I wore internally at that moment that I very nearly laughed aloud. "Yes, I've heard of it," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "Why?"

My voice has never faltered in my life and it certainly didn't then, but I won't deny it was a close thing. "I feel it is my duty to discuss the topic with you, and to make sure you're aware that there are certain…ramifications of such actions."

Sherlock made another sour face. "Not interested."

"Not yet, perhaps," I said, keeping my voice carefully emotionless, "but you might be more inclined in the near future. Most boys begin to feel the first stirrings of lust at your age."

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, finally falling into the chair, though he slung his legs over one of the arms, "that has become disgustingly obvious. It's all the boys at school talk about it. Mary's bum and Martha's breasts. I find the topic droll and slightly…" He spun his hand in the air, tipping his head back over the other arm of the chair. "Sickening."

"And have you shared this opinion with your fellows at school, then?"

Sherlock sneered. "They're hardly my 'fellows', and yes, I have. I made it very clear that I have absolutely no interest in who managed to touch which body part over the weekend unless said body part was unattached to its owner at the time."

"Oh, Sherlock." I dropped my head into my open palm, propping myself up on my elbow. "It's really no wonder you've such a problem with being bullied."

"I suppose you'd prefer me to sham interest, then, like you do," Sherlock said nastily, sitting up and folding his arms over his chest.

"It would make your life easier," I said agreeably.

Sherlock made a rude noise and narrowed his eyes. "Is that why you pretend to be like everyone else, then? Because it makes your life easier?"

"One of many reasons," I smiled, not quite pleasantly. "There are benefits to being underestimated."

"And how intensely boring that must be," Sherlock said softly, "to hide away under the veil of normalcy and live amongst the dullards."

"If you tried it," I persisted, "you would put yourself at an advantage."

"If I tried it," Sherlock said solemnly, "I would be more miserable than you could possibly imagine."

x

Sherlock transformed, so quickly that it seemed nearly overnight, from a small and untidy child with impossible eyes and tumbling curls to a somewhat morose and distant teenager. Each time I saw him he had grown taller and more of the baby fat had melted away from his face, revealing sharp features and giving his eyes a strange slant that was only emphasized by his habit of narrowing them in either curiosity or contempt.

His habits, too, evolved. He began tucking in his shirttails and cleaning his nails, and his marks improved as he was given more control over his timetable, filling his mind with sciences and all but discarding anything to do with the arts (except his violin, which he played for me almost every time I visited, sometimes with the love and care of a true musician and sometimes with the disjointed carelessness of a boy grown bored). He combed his hair, buttoned his cuffs, and only shouted at Mummy when she pressed him too thoroughly. When we were alone he was more like himself, spouting observations about my cuffs or fingernails and slouching all over the furniture, his hair mussing, but such moments were so rare that they seemed almost unreal, as though they existed in some looking-glass world in which I'd never left home and Sherlock had never learned how to be on his own.

Sherlock's pubescence barely punctuated my life in London. He was freshly fourteen when I earned my new, larger office, and I'd had two new secretaries and eight trips out of country on business before his fifteenth birthday. He visited for a week in the summer when he was sixteen, and I took him to my favourite restaurant, to my office at Whitehall, to the London tower and the Scotland Yard and the sites of the murders of Jack the Ripper. Mostly, however, we ambled down busy streets swarmed by pedestrians, and Sherlock cheerfully rambled about this man's affair and that woman's failed attempts at pregnancy, his voice deep but occasionally broken and squeaking. It was a pleasant visit and I was sorry to send him home, and though he was careful not to show it in his face I could see he was sorry to leave. I thought for a moment, as we stood in the train station, that he was going to ask me if he could stay- but his mouth only slightly parted and then pressed back together firmly, his eyes dimming, and he simply whispered, "Goodbye, Mycroft," before slipping away into the crowd, ticket in hand, and leaving me with my throat tight and my hands in my pockets as I stood on the platform, alone for all that I was surrounded by people.

x

I decided to accompany Sherlock on his first trip to university at the last minute, clearing my calendar and commanding my newest secretary to disturb me only in the utmost of emergencies. My driver knew better than to bother me on the long drive to the estate, leaving me alone with my paperwork in the backseat, and the trip felt shorter for it however anxious I was to see my brother. I had phoned ahead to tell Sherlock I was sending the car (he had initially planned to take the train) and so I was very pleased to see him throw open the door and fall into his seat with a sigh, apparently fooled by my careful wording and the dark tint that graced all the windows.

"Dearest brother," I said softly, further gratified by the tiny hitch in his breath and the small movement of his shoulders.

His eyes jumped to mine immediately, his mouth still hanging open in surprise. "Mycroft," he said, his tone a touch breathless and accusatory.

I smiled. "Indeed."

Sherlock looked me over, his gaze sharp and intense, before meeting my eyes again and allowing himself a small smile. "Well played." He settled back against the seat, yanking the door closed and crossing his legs, his hands moving restlessly from his lap to the seat and back again in a strange, stilted rotation.

He had always been a pretty child, my brother, but looking at his hands in that moment brought me to a new and sudden realization: he was a very nearly a man, this long-fingered creature beside me, and for all that his features seemed unearthly and strange at times, he was beautiful. Extraordinarily so, in fact. My eyes skimmed up his thin chest and to the hollow of his throat, the line of his white neck, the bow of his lips. He didn't look like me (though I doubted anyone could be in our company for even a minute without recognizing our relation), with my odd nose and soft jawline. I looked like a Holmes; Sherlock looked like-

"Stop staring at me," Sherlock said, folding his arms over his chest, but his voice was curiously devoid of menace. I met his eyes then (and that we still shared, my eyes as grey and penetrating as his) and looked more closely, trying to decipher him. The question in his eyes- _why are you looking at me like that?_- didn't quite match the statement that came from his lips, so I chose to answer his eyes instead.

"I was just thinking," I said quietly, "how very much you look like Mummy."

Sherlock stared at me, his eyes darting over my face. "Oh," he said at last. And then: "Not very much like you, is it, to come up from London on a lark."

"No," I admitted slowly, not terribly fond of the strange look he was giving me.

"My," he rumbled, dropping his voice, and I sat up a little straighter at the nickname, the sound of it oddly childish in his deep tones, "you've been smoking."

I laughed a little then and relaxed against the seat, not looking away from his razor-sharp stare. "Very good," I smiled, my own gaze just as cutting. Of course Sherlock knew about my nasty little habit, had known about it for some time, I suspected. Probably he also knew that I had quit for nearly seven months and then been drawn back into it during some undercover work in Paris. Legwork, that loathsome requirement of my junior position.

Sherlock returned my smile with one just as unfriendly before holding out one slim hand, his slender wrist turned up so that I might see the blue blood in his veins. My pulse quickened, but my fingers were steady and untrembling as I withdrew my cigarette case from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I flicked the case open, my eyes still on Sherlock's, and ran my fingers along the little cigarettes, savouring the pungent scent of the tobacco, before finally relenting once his eyes flicked from mine to the brown cylinders in my hand and back again. I passed him a cigarette with my thumb and index finger; he pressed it between his lips almost instantaneously, speaking around it to say, "Light."

Indomitable boy. I sighed and fished my lighter from my pocket, but surprised him by flicking it open instead of handing it to him. His eyes narrowed, but he leaned in and drew a few quick breaths until the flame caught and I pulled my hand away, clicking the lighter closed and pocketing it absently.

I watched Sherlock smoke with undeniable pleasure. His eyes fell closed on his first deep inhale, and as the smoke rushed out of him, he sighed and said, "Vienna?"

"Mm," I agreed, cracking the window. This was new, this strange tension between us, but I found it peculiarly thrilling. I reached over and plucked the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to my own and taking a long drag. Sherlock's eyes widened and then narrowed again, and he watched me smoke impatiently, his foot tapping. When I passed it back to him he nearly snatched it from my fingers before pulling smoke in harshly and flicking ash negligently all over my leather seats. "Do please mind the interior," I reprimanded, aware that this had become something of a game. Sherlock made a great show off ashing out of the window before slumping back against the seat again, cigarette dangling from his mouth and fingers drumming on the seat. I felt, in that moment, as though I could watch him like that for centuries.

"I'm nothing like Mummy," Sherlock said, breaking the spell. I watched the cigarette jitter against his full bottom lip and raised my eyebrow in response, and he took another deep, smoke-filled breath before drawling, "I don't feel things the way she does, Mycroft, we both know that." After another moment he added, more softly, "And you're nothing like Father."

I took his meaning. My fingers danced along the buttons of my jacket, forced into action by my sudden bout of nerves. "You remember him?" I asked, because none of the other questions running through my mind bore speaking.

"Barely." Sherlock shrugged and tossed the cigarette's remains out of the window before rolling it up and leaving the car's interior abruptly far too quiet. "But I've studied his things, so…" _So I know more about him than most of the people who claimed to have known him in life_, went the rest of the sentence.

Nodding once, I turned my eyes to the window and watched the countryside roll past, green and wild. "No, I'm nothing like Father," I said, blinking at the faint reflection of myself in the glass. The rest of the ride was silent, each of us reaching the same conclusion independently: sharing a cigarette was one thing; anything more than that would be pointless folly.


	4. The Iceman Cometh

**The Iceman Cometh**

I was twenty-eight when I took my first life.

Not directly, of course; by that time I had quite finished with "legwork", and I'd never had need to do more than incapacitate during my more hands-on stint. In fact, my first death sentence was delivered via memorandum, dispatched just before lunch and nearly forgotten by tea time.

This was the same year I founded the Diogenes, my little silent club that swiftly became one of the most elite establishments in England entire, much less London. The idea came to me rather all of a sudden; I was, in an odd moment of fancy, contemplating my school days and the quiet boys that sat with me at luncheon, when I decided it would be quite easy to recreate such a thing in a more modern context. And while the fellows at school had done wonders for my comfort and happiness at the time, I thought I could get rather more use out of the current batch of eager men that recognized in me some form of authority that was only partway official. It felt very much like all of my childhood dreams had become a reality, minus two concessions: I had realized at this point that Sherlock would never be the man I'd hoped, my perfect match in intelligence, drive, and cunning; and because my father had long since been cremated, I could never show him what I'd done with my life and see the sparkle of approval in his eyes.

However, I'm not particularly prone to sentiment (and yet, and yet reader, I labour over this account). Nor have I ever denied myself the pleasure of a thing wanted _now. _I am not the dog of legend, peering into the river and seeing another dog with a bone that could be mine as well, only to unhinge my jaw and lose everything. My brother might, at times, think me greedy, but I could argue the opposite; I have only ever wanted the things I knew I could have.

But, let us get back to the narrative.

At this time, Sherlock was at university. I had called him once to discuss his plans for the future, not at all surprised to find he had none whatsoever ("And are you still holding out for a life of sea-faring debauchery?" I'd asked teasingly, though Sherlock seemed none too thrilled at the joke) and was merely taking whatever courses suited him, attending them as he pleased, and barely passing anything at all. Likewise, his classmates found him intolerable, his dorm-mate had vacated the room almost immediately, and his professors regularly threw him out of class for making inappropriate comments or repeatedly correcting them during lecture. I knew he was being intentionally insufferable, but all thoughts of punishment flew from my mind as he said, reticently, "Oh, but Mycroft, there _is _this boy…"

"This boy" turned out to be a young man by the name of Victor Trevor. I disliked him instantaneously. Victor was a worthless lout, a drug fiend, and a far sight too weak and impudent to be influencing my brother's behaviour at such a critical developmental stage. I flicked through video feed and found myself sneering at his face; the young man was none too pretty, far better suited to sport than to, say, fashion. He had a very square set to him: square jaw, square shoulders, squared-off look in his black eyes. I found the entire circumstance to be unacceptable. Pondering the possibility that it might already be too late, I pulled the necessary strings and had an unbeatable offer open for young Mr. Trevor on the opposite side of the country. I did not find it very astonishing when he accepted at once and I was very glad to wash my hands of the matter.

Two days after Victor's departure, my (most recent) secretary entered my office with a slightly nervous air. "Mr. Holmes, sir," she said, hesitantly.

I looked up at her with complete placidity. "Yes?"

"I-I'm to give you a message, sir," she said, clearly uncomfortable. "From your brother."

Sitting up a lighter straighter, I waved her in towards me. "Very well, Miss Rosenthal. What is the message?"

"Sir," she said, swallowing anxiously, "I know you strongly prefer that I memorize all messages as they're received and deliver them orally. However, sir, I found the younger Mr. Holmes' message to be…quite indecipherable, sir, and thus difficult to commit to memory."

"And so you've written it down, I presume."

"Yes, sir."

I put out my hand, and Miss Rosenthal placed a small slip of paper in my waiting palm. "It's in code, sir," Miss Rosenthal said rather unnecessarily. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes said you would know the key."

"Yes, thank you," I snipped, shooing her away. I needed a better secretary; no, I decided then and there I wanted a personal assistant, instead, in addition to the usual secretary and waitstaff in my employ. Pocketing the slip, I hummed to myself and contemplated what traits I would like for my newest employee.

Taking my lunch at the Diogenes club, I pulled the slip from my pocket and puzzled over it as I ate. It was true that the message was in code, but it was not true that I was aware of the key. Still, the code was easy enough to crack, simple transposing and shifting. I had the thing beat by the second course. Any thrill of pleasure I might have received from playing Sherlock's little game was washed away in the wake of his message, however, which I scratched out in its entirety even though it was unnecessary to do so.

_Stay out of my life_, the slip said, in my own neat handwriting. I balled it up in my fist and sent it away with the dirty dishes.

x

I was too late, of course, and perhaps too rash. Victor had left an impression. Sherlock was far too intelligent to make this immediately obvious, of course, and so I was not aware of the issue until much later than I found acceptable. He was very careful, initially, and very clever. But eventually he began to give into his whims more often, and more clumsily, and I realized as I watched him one afternoon on campus security that he was thinner and paler than usual, his hands flitting and dancing beside him even more strangely than usual. I watched the feed for several long moments, watched Sherlock do his nasty little deal with a young man in a hooded jacket, watched my brother's shoulders sag with relief as he pocketed his tiny purchase.

By my estimation, Sherlock was nineteen when he began using cocaine. I felt almost entirely at fault.

x

I did everything in my power to make it stop, or so I felt at the time. I cut off Sherlock's access to his bank account, sending one of my employees to his dorm room once a week to enquire about his needs instead. Generally he only snarled and threw things, but once in awhile he allowed my assistant to buy him small things, soap or pens or whatever else he needed at the time. With only very minor difficulty, I arranged for three meals to be brought to his room each day. I have no reason to believe those meals were ever touched, but I did attempt to feed him, at least. I sent him information on rehabilitation centres; I had each and every drug dealer I spotted him with arrested at once; I tracked his movements on CCTV and campus cameras obsessively.

It didn't matter. Somehow he was stilling purchasing the damned drug, still (to my absolute horror) injecting it into his bloodstream. There was only one move remaining to me, in my opinion, and though it was a very dirty move indeed, I found it quite necessary.

x

Sherlock's room was a strange sight. One half (the half vacated by his previous dorm-mate) was an unholy mess of papers and forgotten experiments, broken bits of refuse and seemingly random detritus. The other half was pristine, the bed neatly made and the clothes organized. I was glad to see the bespoke suits I sent him (one new one each month, each perfectly fitted to his measurements at the time) were all neatly pressed and hung in the open bureau.

I stood near the doorway, watching Sherlock rummage through the rubbish on the filthy half of the room. He eventually procured a package of cheap, pre-rolled cigarettes (one of which he offered me, and which I declined with a small crinkle of my nose) and a flip-top lighter. He sat on the edge of the bed and lit his cigarette, still ethereal and handsome for all that he was putting his body to waste.

"You know why I'm here," I said, leaning on the umbrella I'd brought with me due to the light drizzle outside.

Sherlock hummed and smoked. "I suppose you've found it all quite irritating," he said after a moment. "Your lack of control over me, I mean."

I laughed humorlessly. "No, what I have found irritating, darling brother, is your complete lack of interest in self-preservation. You're no idiot. Why defile yourself with that filth you insist on putting into your body?"

"Defile myself," Sherlock said, smiling a bit distantly. "Is that why you sent Victor away?" He looked up at me, his eyes bright and dangerous. "Worried I was going to 'defile myself' with him as well?"

"Haven't you already?"

"You know I didn't." Stubbing out his cigarette in a soiled ashtray, Sherlock stood and went to the window, the paltry light of the afternoon making his cheeks look hollow and frightening. "But I would have. Couldn't have that, could you?"

Clearing my throat, I looked away and said, "It is none of my business with whom you trade seminal fluid, but I will not have you befriending a man of such low quality as Victor Trevor. Nor will I allow this childish idiocy to continue, Sherlock. The drug use must stop. Immediately."

"Or?" Sherlock looked at me sharply.

"Or I tell Mummy. I'll show her video. For God's sake, if I must drag you to the house and tear up your shirtsleeves so that she may see the injection sights herself, I'll do so." I was a little breathless, then, almost dizzy in my anger. "But she will know, Sherlock, and it will break her heart."

For a moment Sherlock looked so much like the child I'd loved and held and essentially raised that I almost crossed over to him and pulled him into my arms. But then his face closed off, and he said dully, "Mummy will never forgive you. She'll consider it your fault."

"I'm willing to take that risk." I brought myself to my full height. "I'll give you one month, Sherlock. One month. And should this disgusting habit of yours persist beyond that point, I will not hesitate to bring it to Mummy's attention."

I spent that month watching whatever video I could access with an even more obsessive air than usual, and what I saw was both pleasing and a little surprising. Sherlock didn't make any more of his ridiculous purchases, and while he looked quite sickly and frail, he began attending his classes and pacing around the campus, chain-smoking and drinking coffee with such vigor one might have thought him American. But no more drugs. That, I thought, was over.

x

Sherlock graduated without incident, leaving Oxford with a degree in chemistry and no more interest in his future than when he'd arrived. I set up for him to take a very nice flat in London, near enough to my own that I could stop by regularly without much effort but far enough away that he wouldn't feel as though I were trying to rein him in. At that point I believed he could be trusted with his own well-being, to some extent. I tried to help him in starting a career but the boy (man, I should say, for he was twenty-two by then and had long since shed any of the boyishness of youth) was steadfast in his refusal to work properly. "Nine to five nonsense," he said dismissively, surrounding himself with newspaper and experimentations in his flat. I let him alone. If he was happy to play scientist, I was happy to allow it.

For three years, this arrangement worked acceptably. I had begun to ingratiate myself to the lesser-known world powers, at that point, and my reach was beginning to extend beyond England's shores. I could never, and will never, write of all the things in which I found myself involved, but to say that the world runs in a more carefully controlled way than most people could possibly imagine would not be untrue. My eyes were newly open. I thought I had had power in my twenties, but I discovered quite quickly that nothing could have been further from the truth. This, my new work, this was power. Saying I enjoyed it would be a grievous understatement. But it was exhausting, time-consuming work, especially in those early days. I left Sherlock almost entirely to his own devices. To this day I'm still not entirely sure what he did to fill his time, though I suspect he spent it learning foreign languages, amassing his homeless network, and building several aliases. That I was doing nearly an identical thing, only at a global scale, has not escaped my attention nor my amusement.

But for a time, things were going rather well for us. Sherlock had his work, I had mine, and we both found time to visit Mummy on occasion, to meet once in awhile for lunches (where Sherlock would jitter his foot and smoke and treat me poorly, and I would be stiffly polite and slightly condescending, as was our wont) and sometimes merely for walks in the city (where Sherlock would quietly rumble his observations in my ear, and I would listen to him silently and ignore the painful swelling in my chest, as was our wont). For a time, we were as happy as any pair of Holmes' could have been.

And then, when I was thirty-five, Mummy died.


	5. My Brother, Who Art in London

**My Brother, Who Art In London**

On the way to Mummy's funeral, my phone rang, the no-nonsense trill still nearly deafening in the quiet space of my beige backseat.

"Mr. Holmes, sir," said the man I had assigned to pick up my brother. My lips immediately pursed. "I apologize for the intrusion on your time, sir, but you said to call if there were any…hiccups."

"Yes," I said quietly, gripping the phone a little tighter.

"Well," the man said. I could hear him shifting in the background, the soft rustle of his suit as he changed his stance. "There's been one."

x

I expected that, on some level. I expected Sherlock to react poorly to Mummy's death because, despite his claims otherwise, he was so much like Mummy in her capacity for emotion that it sometimes astounded me. I have never, and will never, love anyone the way I love my brother, but Sherlock has always keened for affection, whether he is aware of it or not, from a vast and startling scope of people. Sherlock has always craved love. And he is quite capable of having his heart broken. So while to me, Mummy's death was an unfortunate taxation on my time and a slight relief (because while I did hold a rather immense measure of love for the woman, and still do today, I understood that her only true desire was to join my father in whatever foolish idea of an afterlife she'd devised for herself), to Sherlock it was quite simply devastating.

Still. I admit I had expected him to attend the funeral, at the very least.

Sherlock was not at his flat when the driver came to pick him up. He wasn't at my flat, either, nor was he at any of his various and varyingly seedy haunts. His bank account showed a cash withdrawal of twenty thousand pounds at eight thirty that morning, and his credit card revealed the purchase of several items that piqued my interest, including a pair of trainers, a gun cleaning kit, and several pieces of luggage. The airline ticket he presumably bought, however, evaded me. I suspected the purchase of a throwaway gift card bought with cash. He had lost my men rather early, embarrassingly, and when I questioned them I found them to be moronic wastes of my time. I sacked them all, on the spot.

I cut off Sherlock's access to his bank account, though I'm sure he expected as much, and sent out several of my best people to search for him. I issued a warning on his passport, set up surveillance at every checkpoint and border I was able, but it still took the better part of a year for Sherlock to surface.

It shouldn't have surprised me when he did, and yet…seeing a grainy, shaky video of one's only brother in a Chinese prison is always alarming, I suspect, no matter how English or intelligent one might be. My people stepped in, of course, and he gave them the slip, of course, and three months later I found him at my flat, unconscious and filthy, lying on the rug I'd had special ordered only weeks earlier, bleeding copiously from a nominal head wound.

When he came to, cleaned and properly dressed and with his head tidily plastered, I sat down on the edge of the bed in my guest suite and looked down at him, at his bright eyes and his pale skin and the circles that looked so much like bruises, tainting his lovely face. "You will not do that again," I said simply.

Sherlock nodded. "I've discovered a distinct lack of fondness for prison," he said, his voice quiet.

"I presume you will need a brief stay at a rehabilitation centre. Will three months suffice?"

"Three months?" Sherlock shook his head. "I'll go mad with boredom. Can't I just stay here?"

"Of course not." I stood and crossed over to the window, peering out into the street. "I am a busy man, Sherlock, or haven't you noticed? It's enough that I have to play spy and track you all over the globe. I hardly have the time or the patience to play nursemaid, as well."

Sherlock's lip jutted sullenly. "Suppose I refuse treatment?"

"You mentioned a dislike for prison," I said, smiling. "I can assure you that while Her Majesty provides rather more comfort for her criminals than our friends in the East do for theirs, your opinion on that matter will very likely remain unchanged."

Crossing his arms, Sherlock frowned. "One month. I won't need more than that."

"One month," I agreed, "but you will not be given a choice in the matter, should this happen again."

x

I am not the first person to make such an observation, nor will I be the last, but as I have grown older I have noticed the peculiar nature of time and the way it progresses more quickly as more of it passes. As a child, a day felt like a lifetime. As an adult, years pass in barely a breath.

So it was during this time of our lives, when I was kept exceptionally busy by American politics (war is a rather consumptive venture, especially when it is so carefully orchestrated) and my new marriage (an undertaking which I had managed to avoid for as long as I considered socially acceptable) and Sherlock was spending long days in his flat, destroying things and studying silt and torturing his violin. Several years passed in one quick, sharp exhale, years during which my fondness for my brother was seconded only by the knowledge that every news report, every dollar and pound and euro, every government scandal and dip in the economy, could undoubtedly be traced back, in part, to me. Oh, not in any real sense of the word. I never left a trace; I wasn't stupid. But the trail thrilled me no less for its invisibility. I have always enjoyed being the unseen hand that pulls the world's strings. Sherlock says sometimes that I fancy myself to be God. Of course, that isn't true. There is no God.

In that, I have God beat.

x

(Ah- I suppose one might consider the fleeting mention of my nuptials a touch underwhelming. Fine, very well. Allow me to elaborate. The ceremony was smaller than it might have been, had Mummy still been alive. Sherlock failed to appear for the wedding itself, to my absolute lack of surprise, though he did manage to attend the reception afterwards. He looked immensely pleased with himself, despite the fact that there was some strange blue substance spread across seven of his fingers and a singed patch on his fringe, and he was gone almost as soon as he had arrived. As to the bride: one of my distant cousins on the Vernet side. I picked her up in a pretty little seaside village in France, where I promptly returned her once I felt enough time had passed to make our marriage seem legitimate. I hope I haven't disappointed you, dear reader, but alas: I did _not_ marry for love. Any further curiosity about the consummation of our union can be quelled, as well, when I say that I gritted my teeth through the act just once, three days after the wedding. I proceeded to be sick afterwards- there is something so distastefully inelegant about vomiting- and she wept during the night when she thought I was asleep. All in all, not the sort of performance one strives to repeat.)

x

I was in a conference with several men, whose names I dare not write down, shortly after my forty-third birthday when my secretary rapped on the door. I apologized to my guests and slipped out into the hall, giving her a daunting look, but almost immediately I recognized the tightness around her eyes and the unhappy twist of her mouth.

"What has he done?" I snapped, not waiting for her to speak.

She opened her mouth, closed it, reconsidered. "Mr. Holmes, sir," she said, fidgeting. "It's your brother." As though that weren't exceptionally obvious. She leaned in, clouding my nose with her disgusting perfume, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "He's been arrested."

My facial muscles did not even twitch, nor did my voice waver as I asked, "On what charges?" But my heart thudded traitorously in my chest, and a quiet voice in my mind whispered: _Drugs? Theft? Vandalism? …Murder?_

The ridiculous woman cleared her throat and recited nervously: "Impeding an investigation, trespassing, public disturbance, resisting arrest, assault of a police officer, obstructing justice, and three different counts of the destruction of public property. Sir."

I became aware at that moment of the slackness of my jaw and closed it with a click. My tongue passed over my dry lips as I ran through the laundry list of charges once more. "Clear my schedule for the day," I said at last, sparing a glance back at the conference room full of nameless men with nameless jobs. "Call my driver. Have him meet me downstairs in fifteen. And call my solicitor. Quickly."

x

I was very displeased with Gregory Lestrade during our first meeting, though I suppose most of his initial surliness could be attributed to the unfortunate actions of my dear, sweet brother. The newly appointed Detective Inspector very nearly refused to meet with me at all, although my special status with the government quickly persuaded him. We sat in his office, sipping cheap coffee from little plastic cups, as the poor D. I. explained what had happened.

It was his first big homicide as Detective Inspector, that much was clear, and Lestrade had been eager to make a good impression. He and his team were investigating the crime scene (a public lavatory in a park) when Sherlock "appeared out of nowhere" and began haranguing them about their various inaccuracies. Lestrade politely asked Sherlock to leave, and then less politely threatened to have him arrested, but Sherlock gleefully persisted in being a nuisance. There was a scuffle between Sherlock and some rat-faced technician who was photographed afterwards with a bruise around his right eye and a cut lip, which apparently grew into a scuffle between Sherlock and three officers in the middle of a public park. All told, the damage include Rat Face's petty surface injuries, a park bench (which Sherlock broke), a police car (which Sherlock dented), and the park's famed tulips (which Sherlock trampled, and which Lestrade seemed rightfully embarrassed to mention). I listened graciously as Lestrade ranted about Sherlock's "nerve" and the mess that my brother had made of both his department and his investigation, and when at last he finally winded down I set down my cup, crossed my legs, and smiled.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," I said charmingly, pleased to the see the slight lift in his shoulders at the title. It's very easy to manipulate a man's pride. "It sounds as though you've had a very trying morning. While I must apologize for the inconvenience, I know you'll be glad to hear my department will be handling this little incident effective immediately. The damages will be paid at once, a public apology will be issued to your…"

"Anderson," Lestrade said, crossing his arms. His tongue was poking around inside his cheek- one of his habitual signs of displeasure, though I couldn't have known that at the time.

"Anderson, yes. Forgive me." I stood and smoothed my lapels, still smiling. "And of course, my brother must be released to my custody, with all charges dropped."

Lestrade stood. "Now hang on, if you think I'm just going to let you-"

"I think you'll find that you will," I said, my smile going sour. And of course, I was completely correct. (Though Lestrade's stubbornness dragged the thing out to nearly two hours, much to my irritation.) After the negotiations had been made and the implications of Lestrade's position were clear, he sat at his desk with his head in his hands. I made to leave the office and go home (Sherlock had already been released by the Met and taken to my flat) but paused in the doorway, struck by a whim. "You'll find he was right," I said softly. I turned back and met Lestrade's eyes.

"Right about what?" the man sighed, sounding exhausted.

"Everything. You'd do well to listen to my brother, Detective Inspector. I know he can be…over-zealous. But he's not often wrong."

"Right," Lestrade said, his jaw tight, "well when I decide I need an amateur solving my cases for me, I'll be sure to give him a call."

"Yes," I agreed amiably, "I suspect you shall."

x

Whether it was my sage advice or Sherlock's pervasive presence at crime scenes that eventually corroded Lestrade's resolve, who can say? Lestrade had Sherlock arrested seven times in total, despite the complete ineffectiveness of the action, before finally giving in and accepting Sherlock's help. And within a year of his last arrest, Sherlock was toting around business cards proclaiming himself as the world's only consulting detective and unveiling his nonsensical website to such a lack of fanfare that I actually paid three staffers to regularly peruse the site merely so Sherlock would think he was getting some traffic.

I will say this, however: the work helped him. True, he relapsed a half-dozen times after he began consulting for the Yard, but all of those relapses occurred when he was left idle for too long. (Here I found Lestrade's presence in my brother's life an unbelievable boon; who better to spot the signs of drug use than a man who used to work the narcotics division at the Met?) And it seemed Sherlock was truly good at what he did, good enough that even I began seeking Sherlock's consultations on minor cases with peculiarities involving sensitivity or an overabundance of legwork.

By the time a certain army doctor was being rushed to Kabul by helicopter, blood seeping from his body at what I've been told was a disquieting rate, Sherlock had truly established himself in his chosen career, however made up said career might have initially been. He wasn't famous by any means, nor did he want to be, but he was well known amongst law enforcement officials and respected, at least, if not liked. _But was he happy? _you might ask, my imaginary audience, and to that I can only smile. I thought he was, I'll admit it. But contemplating now I can honestly attest that no, Sherlock wasn't happy. He was alone.


	6. The Good Doctor

**The Good Doctor**

I wanted to dislike John Watson the moment I met him. He was insufferably stubborn, stupidly brave, irritatingly difficult to manipulate. I looked at the shoulder that I had wounded (for after all, was it not my war that brought him that bullet?) and the hand that sometimes shook from an addiction which I had supplied, and I wanted quite badly to hate him.

I didn't.

In fact, I liked him the instant he told me not to touch his hand, during our first meeting in the empty warehouse (my own building in fact, kept for that sole purpose; it is so very difficult to find a place for a quiet chat in London, I find). I found his resistance almost…charming. I very nearly pitied him for his strength, for the tightness of his jaw as I revealed his secrets to him without preamble or pretense. This man, this little soldier…it was possible that his association with my brother would prove to be more beneficial than detrimental. I decided, as I walked away (swinging my umbrella cheerfully, I'll add), that I would allow the experiment to continue. Until such time as I saw fit to end it.

But after the dear doctor dispatched of Jefferson Hope, one "bloody awful cabbie" as he termed it, I decided there was no need to end the experiment at all. John Watson wasn't going to hurt my brother. If anything, it would be quite the opposite.

x

I worried, rather often in fact, about my brother's ability to sustain a friendship. I felt quite sure, from my limited in-person observations and my multitudinous CCTV records, that John Watson held a great deal of affection for Sherlock, for whatever reason. I had my suspicions, of course, but if their relationship ever crossed the line from platonic to romantic (and I knew my brother to be capable despite his protestations) I never witnessed any evidence of it. Still, I thought one would either have to be mad or in love to chase Sherlock about London as Dr. Watson so often did, and I had seen the man's medical and psychological records. He was not mad.

It was the Bruce-Parrington case that made me wonder if perhaps my brother returned the sentiment. While it was clear to me that Sherlock was having a grand time with Moriarty's elaborate game, it was equally clear that he had come to trust and rely on John more than I could have initially imagined. Moreover, while I found his incident with Moriarty at the pool infuriating (why hadn't he called me? why did he insist on charging in alone, with only a gun and his wits to defend him?), I found his reaction to John's peril fascinating. I rewound the pool's surveillance tapes several times, after the fact, watching it over and over.

I watched, and I watched, and I watched. And I knew: Sherlock loved John. In what capacity, in what quantity, in what terms…that I didn't know (and still don't, not entirely). But he loved him. It startled me, how frightening I found that concept to be. My brother loved, and was loved in return, by someone other than myself. Strange. Unbelievable. And yet, true.

x

Their relationship unfolded like background noise. Terrorism (whether countering it or enacting it) tends to keep a man busy, and I admit my mind was not so preoccupied with Sherlock as it had always been. I trusted John (I trusted John? oh yes, somehow, somewhere along the line, the good doctor inspired my faith in him) to take care of my brother and to inform me, should my presence or influence become necessary. (And what lengths we went to, the doctor and I, to keep him safe. Dr. Watson can be rather clever at times; I admit the 'Danger Night' code was entirely his idea.) My interactions with the pair became somewhat more involved after my stupidity: introducing Sherlock to the Adler woman was one of my gravest mistakes. I didn't realize, of course, that my brother would have such a reaction to _the _woman. Possibly his love for John (and my presumption that the love was romantic in nature and reciprocated) was meant, in my mind, to protect him from her wiles. I admit I was extremely satisfied to discover she was dead (the first time).

"Caring is not an advantage," I told him, a warning. I knew it from experience.

The Bond Air incident was my single greatest failure. It's true, Moriarty was a very clever man. He knew how to play us, Sherlock and I, against each other. Possibly he even knew something about my brother I didn't (for instance, I suspect now that Sherlock's friendship with Dr. Watson awakened within him the ability to desire someone, physically or in entirety, for the first time since Sherlock was at university, and that Moriarty had realized this well before I did). I suppose I respected the woman, too, in some ways, for her audacity.

But.

The Bond Air incident was also one of my greatest victories. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," Sherlock said to Irene, when I'd already given up hope. And I have never loved him more than I did in that moment.

After she was gone, dispatched and forgotten (quite dead this time, from what I've heard), Sherlock and I sat together and spoke for awhile about how we were going to deal with our mutual annoyance, Jim Moriarty. This was just before his little jaunt to Dartmoor, before the mess of reporters and before everything came to its grand finale. It took Sherlock nearly two weeks after Adler's beheading to come to me, but when he did we sat down in my office at the Diogenes and I interlocked my fingers, laid them on the desk, and waited for him to speak.

"He's good," Sherlock said, after a long moment of silence.

"Yes," I agreed. I am a very patient man, when I want to be.

Sherlock sighed. "It would be in our best interest-" He stopped, glared at his fingernails. "Separately, Mycroft, we each have our weaknesses. I have…John, of course. That damned blog. People know me."

I smiled. "And my weaknesses?"

"Me," Sherlock said immediately, and without humor. "And your predilection to power. Moriarty is clever, Mycroft, and he thinks he knows us. You heard what the woman said, his advice for 'playing the Holmes boys'."

"Advice that very nearly worked," I said icily. "What do you propose we do about it?"

"Make ourselves unplayable," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. He locked his fingers, unconsciously mirroring my pose. "If Moriarty intends to make us work against each other, the simple solution would be to use that to our advantage."

The smile that tugged at my lips was almost disgustingly fond. "Are you proposing an allegiance, brother mine?"

"A temporary one," Sherlock spat. He sighed and tapped his foot. "Moriarty cannot play us against each other if we work together. But we can still allow him his delusions. Let him think he's winning, all the way to the end."

"I see." I pursed my lips and looked at the ceiling for a long moment before meeting his eyes. "There's something else. Something you're not telling me."

Sherlock made a face. "My motives are none of your concern. We each get what we want, Mycroft, and then we can go back to our usual bickering. Do we have a deal?"

"Your motives," I said, narrowing my eyes, "are very much my concern. However, it is the means which draw my curiosity. How do you intend to fool Moriarty so thoroughly? How will we convince him of our continued animosity?"

"That won't be hard," Sherlock laughed, looking something like his youthful self for a moment. "But the answer is really quite obvious. Whatever he wants from you, give it to him. Make him think you're as cold as he imagines you to be."

"And that won't bring you harm?"

To my surprise, Sherlock seemed amused. "I suspect it might, though it's a risk I'm willing to take. Moriarty promised to burn the heart out of me. My heart. An odd word choice."

"John?" I asked, lifting my brows.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, looking affronted. "My work, Mycroft. My whole life hinges on my ability to work." Looking slightly sheepish, Sherlock added, "I count John as part of that, as you know. It would be very unpleasant for me to go back to working without a partner." Clearing his throat, he wiped his expression and said, "If I lost my ability to work, I would go mad. I don't know what he's planning next, but I'm certain it will affect my work."

"Ah." I tapped my fingers on the desk for a moment. "Well, once the game becomes clear I'm sure it will be easy enough for us to work things to our advantage. Consider us allies, dear brother."

"Good." Sherlock smiled, slow and dangerous. "It's possible that Moriarty could beat me on my own, I'll admit that. But both of us? Unlikely."

x

"I've figured it out," Sherlock said one afternoon, his voice small through the telephone.

"Oh?"

"Yes, what Moriarty meant. About owing me a fall." I could hear Sherlock tapping his foot. "It's funny. He could have destroyed me, if he'd only paid attention. Instead he's giving me something I needed, anyway."

Admittedly, that confused me. "That being?"

Sherlock chuckled. "The ability to go to ground. As I told John, the last thing I need is a public image."

And then it all made sense. The information Moriarty had requested from me. The promise of a fall. The pervasive blog and the extremely public trial. "Ah. Of course."

"I have a plan."

"Naturally."

"And I'll need you to speak to John."

I sighed. "You mean you need me to lie to John, is that it?"

There was a momentary silence. At last, Sherlock said quietly, "Yes."

"Very well," I said, rubbing my temple. "Come and see me, when you're able to take a moment from your busy schedule. We'll arrange the details, hmm? And Sherlock?"

"Yes, brother?" he asked, irritable as ever.

"Please consider some alternatives to this plan of yours. Ordinary people do not much care for extravagant lies." I paused, considering how to phrase my objection. "It is possible that your actions will destroy more than just your reputation."

"John's faith in me is boundless," Sherlock said, cutting to the quick of the conversation. "Kindly keep your enormous nose out of my personal business and focus on the task at hand. I'll be by later."

x

The text came on a rather gloomy looking afternoon, white skies and damp air.

_It's time. SH_

I looked at the small letters for only a moment. Then I closed the message and did what needed to be done.


	7. All Lives End, All Hearts Are Broken

**All Lives End (All Hearts Are Broken)**

My brother is thirty-nine, and by all accounts he threw himself off a rooftop yesterday afternoon. I watched the thing on CCTV; it was rather touching, in its own way. Dr. Watson was admirably foolish and brave, as always. Allowing Sherlock to take him as a hostage, following my mad brother all over London, nipping off to check on Mrs. Hudson after one well-placed phone call from yours truly (not directly, of course, never directly). I suppose, were I of the more dramatic bend, I might have shed a tear. Lord knows Sherlock did; more than one, in fact. (An astounding fact. I have not seen my brother cry since he was eight years old, clutching my shirt in his small fists and cursing himself for his peculiarities.)

This morning I watched Sherlock's skinny back retreating towards the waiting car, his hair still wild and his silhouette still striking. "Do attempt to be careful," I called after him from the open doorway. He responded with a gesture that some might consider uncouth. Our love is a nurturing sort, I assure you. (I apologize. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.)

Last night I watched him sink down on the edge of the chaise lounge in my formal sitting room and set his head in his hands, tears flowing freely. I leaned against the mantel and sipped my brandy slowly. "Your reaction to all this, brother mine, is somewhat bemusing."

Sherlock made a rude noise but didn't look up at me, whether from shame or disinterest I'm still not sure. Perhaps both.

"You knew how this would end, surely," I said softly. Why did I need to say those things aloud? We both knew them; neither of us enjoy toying with redundancy. And yet… "You chose to play the game. No one wins at chess without losing a few pieces."

"I hardly expect you to understand, Mycroft." Sherlock looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed. "Moriarty seemed to think John was my pet. Would you agree?"

I laughed, a small, hard sound. "I should say quite the opposite. For all that you're a contrary creature, Sherlock, our good doctor has made some progress in taming you."

The noise that left Sherlock's throat then was a wretched sound, a laugh that had been broken and torn to pieces. "Our good doctor. You know he'll hate you for this."

"I could, perhaps, say the same thing to you."

My cruelty was rewarded with a look of sheer anguish. "What have I done?" Sherlock whispered, more to himself than to me.

But I'm not his skull, nor am I his doting friend. I am his brother. I answered as honestly as I could. "What was needed. Your self-pity is beginning to grate my nerves, dear brother."

"Then do by all means fuck off and leave me to my thoughts," he said, but without any real fire in his words. He reclined back, folding his hands over his chest as though he really were dead, his eyes falling closed and his chest nearly stilling.

I watched him in silence for a long moment, until my glass was drained and my blood was a little warmer for it. My voice soft, I asked, "Where will you go, Sherlock?"

"Prague," he said at once. "I have a lead."

"Ah." I sighed and shifted my weight, leaning a bit more heavily against the fireplace. "I do so love Prague in winter. The stark beauty of the place. So cold and colourless. It's heavenly."

"My God, you ought to write a book. 'Dreadful Descriptions of Depressing Destinations.' I hope you'll send signed copies to my friends, in my memory."

My laugh that time was a truer thing. "But of course. I shall dedicate the work to you. 'To my dearest brother, who has been nigh insufferable his entire life and has only become worse upon his untimely death. Let us hope that in his resurrection he will become somewhat more tolerable.'"

"Unlikely," Sherlock said, crossing his ankles. He'd stopped crying, at last. "I wouldn't hold out for it, certainly."

"No," I agreed, smiling a little. "I should say not." I sighed and set the glass down on the mantelpiece, trusting the staff to attend to it after I'd gone. "Please avail yourself of the guest suite, Sherlock. This may well be your last opportunity to sleep in a proper bed for some time."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'll be needing a few things in the morning."

"Of course. Leave a list on my desk in the study and I will see to it first thing." I began to walk away when his voice, quiet and small, stopped me.

"Thank you."

I stood still for a moment longer before moving on once more, my footfalls quiet against the plush carpeting. I didn't respond. There was nothing more to say.

Now it's dark again, pale moonlight shining through the open curtains of my study. I don't know, not for certain, if Sherlock has truly gone on to Prague or not. He lost my tail quite quickly, the relentless fool, but I expect I'll catch sight of him again sometime soon. I always find him after all, my brother.

I'm thinking about his last words to me: _look after him_. Sherlock was referring to Dr. Watson, of course; in all things, his mind goes back to that small soldier and his unending kindness. I will look out for the man, naturally, as I consider it my duty. I will put money into his bank account and refuse to accept it when he inevitably tries to return it; I will continue to watch him on CCTV and have a surveillance team track his movements, as I have done for quite some time now; I will allow him to come to my club and shout abuses at me and I will not even contemplate the speed with which I could see his life end, if I wanted. The doctor has become an extension of my brother; so be it. I will look after him.

But, as it always has been, my mind will always be on Sherlock alone. I meant what I said: I do hope he is careful. I hope he comes home. It's true that caring is not an advantage, but in this instance I feel my handicap is justified.

And besides, we do make quite the formidable team.


End file.
